“We half expected a disturbance like this, even trained for it. The assholes that organized this international conference should have known better—that something like this would happen. The summit is an open invitation to hooligans. What were they thinking?”
It wasn’t a question.
“We knew there was bound to be a repeat of the 2010 riots, but this was far more serious than we ever imagined.” He took a slow sip of beer, wiped the foam from his lips, and looked in the mirror behind the bar.
Do I really look that tired?
“Some wiseass came up with the bright idea that any detectives who were not working undercover should suit up or have their uniforms nearby for the duration of the conference. They were prepping us for a riot. Hell, it wasn’t a riot, it was riots—plural. Someone at the top of our food chain thinks the mere presence of uniforms provides a feeling of security. So I hurried to my locker and put on my uniform.”
Carling took a long drink, then grunted. “I haven’t worn mine in years, and it was too tight for comfort. Then I saw my reflection.” He grimaced at the thought. “Where the fuck did all those rioters come from anyway? They were prepared, I tell you—organized.”
Scott just nodded.
“I needed this break. We all did,” Carling said. “This is the first real one I’ve had since the riots started.”
“That’s the same for me, for sure,” Scott mumbled. “All I’ve had time for is grabbing a quick bite and a smoke.” He rubbed his glass on his forehead to cool it. “Damn, it’s hot for this time of the year. I’m beat.”
“How could this have happened? We heard rumors about intelligence pointing to a riot or disorder, but this went so far beyond that!” Carling was almost shouting. “The other riot back in 2010 looks like child’s play next to this. This was prearranged, I tell you.” He banged his empty mug down on the counter.
For the usually taciturn Carling, this amounted to a soapbox speech.
“I haven’t had much sleep in the past seventy-two hours, and I know it’s the same for you,” Scott said. He signaled Randy, the bartender, for another round. “I’m surprised you’re still open,” Scott said as he placed the beers on the counter.
“I’m totally out of draught beer and down to a few cases of bottles, mostly the crap nobody will buy—except in an emergency,” the barkeep grunted. “When my inventory’s gone, it’ll be lights out. I’m calling it quits. Hell, I even sent all my people home. What’s the use of even locking the door? The city’s gone to crap now. What’s left of it? I just don’t care anymore.” He hid his tears behind indignant words.
Randy walked away, picked up a cloth, and started polishing empty glasses while muttering obscenities. Watching the pointless cleaning, Carling reflected how people often filled a vacuum with ritual, especially when they were at a loss.
“How much sleep have any of us had?” Carling said. “I fell asleep at my desk a couple of hours back, right in the middle of filling out a form. When I snapped awake to someone coughing, I decided it was time to head here.”
Scott nodded. “I was almost asleep behind the wheel, waiting to get waved through a snarled intersection. I looked up at a uniform rapping his nightstick on the window. He started to yell at me, so I held up my cap and badge. He just walked away, mumbling about how wrinkled and crappy I looked in my out-of-date uniform.”
“There was something strange about this riot,” Carling said in a strident tone. “It was like the UK riots, where people used instant messages, cell phones, and the like—you know, to orchestrate stuff. This time, it was clear from the get-go that someone was directing things, calling the shots.” He stared at the beer glass in front of him. He hadn’t taken a drink from his new pour yet. “This was well organized, I tell you.”
“I sensed that, too,” Scott agreed.
“We knew who the usual student troublemakers were from intelligence reports. They also have a certain look about them. It wasn’t them, not this time. A lot of the guys this time looked like bikers. I saw more than one prison tat, for sure—”
Carling was about to add something more when the door burst open. Two men stood framed in the doorway, the bright sunlight silhouetting them from behind.
“We thought we would find you two here,” one of them said.
“It’s about time we got a break,” the other one said as they walked in. “Ain’t this a freakin’ awful mess?”
“Jimmy! Brian! it’s a relief to see you’re OK. You guys better hurry and order before Randy runs out of beer,” Scott said. “On me.”
After they had ordered, the foursome moved to a booth. Nobody spoke at first; they just sat, drinking their beers, four veteran cops with a total of eighty-seven service years between them. All wore the same shocked expressions and had pale and drawn faces.
“Before you guys got here, we were talking about where we were when this all began,” Scott said.
“I was in the middle of the sweetest dream—you know, getting laid,” Jimmy said. “At least I think it was a dream, because I was alone in bed. My cell rang and woke me up. It always means trouble at that time of the night. My feet hit the floor, and I was chasing the sleep away, trying to remember where my uniform was.”
“I thought we would be assigned together,” Carling said. “But with all hell breaking loose, I ended up with a bunch of rookies on a bus heading to the north end. The smoke was so thick in some places the driver had to slow to a crawl.”
“They handed us riot shields and gear when I got to my assigned post,” Jimmy said. “It was downtown, and I didn’t see anyone I knew. We could hear gunfire—a lot of gunfire. There were a lot of worried looks exchanged between us.”
Scott jumped in. “I was watching TV—nothing special, just surfing for something to watch, when my phone started to vibrate. I didn’t want to wake Karen.”
They all knew she was a nurse at General, and they’d heard the rumors that two hospitals were mobbed, ER patients had been beaten, some killed. At least that was the buzz.
“Karen’s phone started to ring soon after mine,” Scott went on. “We both rushed to get ready, but at least she knew where her uniform was.” It wasn’t meant to be humorous, and no one took it that way.
“I think we were facing an organized attack.” It was Carling. “Maybe we still are. This was orchestrated. Mark my words: we’re going to hear how this has all been the work of terrorists. Then watch the government lay down the law—hard.”
Randy, the bartender, yelled over at that exact time. “Hey, guys!” He held up his hand and removed his earbuds. “They’re announcing something on the radio. It sounds something like, I don’t know, they mentioned a War Measures Act—at least I think that’s what they said.” They all waited as he replaced the earbuds. “All civil liberties are suspended. Now they’re saying something about CleanSweep. You guys know about some program called that?”
Carling’s head snapped up, and he was suddenly on full alert. “That blogger warned me about them! He tried to warn me that CleanSweep was more than an idea. I didn’t take him seriously at first…”
Are they really capable of—are they behind this somehow—CleanSweep? Carling considered that thought, knowing they were indeed capable of it. Something tugged at the edges of his memory, and he touched his cell phone holster.
“I’m going to check an old message I have stored.” He tugged the phone out and saw it was working. “Hey, the phones are back up.”
All four started scrolling through their new messages in a frenzy.
“Karen’s safe!” Scott said as he began to cry. Nobody thought any less of him for it.
At the same time, the television screen behind the bar flickered on, and then a picture appeared. “Action 21 News,” the announcer said. Before the power went off, the volume had been on high to be audible in the always-crowded bar. Now it was so loud the four of them yelled at Randy to
turn down the sound.
“We’re broadcasting from a mobile trailer. All the city’s television and radio studios were apparently destroyed in the rampage. We are hoping for a report any second now from Susan Payne. We hope she’s on the scene at Nathan Phillips Square, but so far there’s been no contact with her or her cameraman.”
The screen filled with aerial views that were riveting and heartbreaking, showing four areas around the city that were in ruins, smoke still curling up from many locations. The scenes were reminiscent of bombed-out cities from World War II. One was a vast area around the north edge of the city. Another huge scene of destruction lay in the center of the Distillery District. That popular restaurant and entertainment area had been reduced to scorched buildings with most of their windows broken out.
“Look at that,” Carling said. The camera aimed next at the botanical conservatory and gardens. “Look what they have done to that beautiful old structure—it’s in ruins.”
“Karen and I were married there,” Scott said. “Now…it’s gone.”
They watched the newscaster pause as he was handed a note. “There’s still no word from Susan Payne, not since the raid on our studio earlier.”
Behind the anchor, the screen projected background videos showing protesters gathering outside the conference headquarters in the days before the opening. Then the backdrop changed to B-roll footage showing hundreds of people walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the Royal York Hotel, carrying signs protesting every conceivable cause.
“Thugs and hooligans appeared without warning. It was like a flash mob. But this group had more than protest in mind,” the newsreader said, his tone subdued.
The screen behind the announcer showed yet another view of the carnage. Hundreds of fear-provoking men and women wearing militia-type uniforms could be seen rounding a corner, smashing windows, overturning cars, and firing weapons into the air. Suddenly the screen went blank.
“That was the last footage we received before our station and studio came under attack. We now know that four major sections of the city seem to have been targeted. The destruction was significant—” His voice broke, no longer dispassionate.
“The latest numbers available to us are that over four hundred and seventy-five people have been killed—nobody has an accurate count on the number injured. Five hospital emergency rooms and all of the downtown clinics have been overwhelmed. They appear to be the intended targets of attacks. There are confirmed reports of people who were waiting for treatment being pulled out of their chairs and attacked, many beaten severely. One clinic that received particularly vicious assaults was the Lifeline Clinic, popular with street people and the homeless. Another clinic attacked offered abortion services.”
The announcer stopped and looked up at the camera, the skin on his face stretched tight in a grimace. “This just in,” he said, looking at a sheet of paper handed to him from off camera. “The federal government has now enacted emergency legislation. All citizens are to report to one of the following sites to be documented and to receive individual identification cards.”
The screen behind him flashed the CleanSweep logo and then changed to a map showing the location of the CleanSweep district administrative offices. “This station will keep you informed when we have more information about the locations of sites that will be issuing ID cards. Mark Spears, reporting.” He kept staring at the camera until the cutaway.
As the newscast faded to black, the first real CleanSweep operation got underway.
• • •
Near the intersection of Danforth Avenue and Dewhurst Boulevard, in a side street on the eastern edge of the Valley neighborhood, a two-story, red-brick building displayed bright-red doors that glistened in the sunlight. Neighbors had been pleased to learn someone had purchased the abandoned fire station and were delighted to see the care taken to restore it to like-new condition.
“The landscaping and renovations make it look like it did years ago,” a longtime neighborhood resident said. “I used to go there as a kid and ask the firemen if I could slide down the pole. Then came the budget cuts…”
Others nodded, accepting his venerable word on the matter. The mortar joints of the bricks had been renewed and carefully tuck-pointed, and the window and door frames freshly painted. Flowers graced large planters along the front wall.
Now, passersby were often treated to the clanging of the alarm bell behind closed doors. The chiming had a comforting aspect to it—it signaled help would soon be on the way. If the front overhead door was open, they might have been able to see young men and women in khaki uniforms sliding down the pole. But this was no game.
When the station alarm rang on the first day of Operation CleanSweep, as it would become known, Sweeper Team Alpha scrambled to duty. They jumped from their chairs around the lunch table, sending dishes and cutlery sliding.
“This is it, for real!” the station captain shouted. He checked a form on his clipboard and watched the driver, computer analyst, and two sweepers slide down the pole one after the other, just as they had rehearsed.
The main garage door opened, and a Sprinter van emerged. The driver turned the vehicle north first, and then east. They were about to make history. Their orders were to proceed to the address now flashing on the computer screen. The van’s GPS was detailing the distance and directing turns in a robotic voice. “Three minutes to destination…two minutes to destination…one minute to destination.”
Doug was the team’s computer analyst. He was hunched over a screen and keyboard on a shelf attached to the dashboard. His job was to direct the two sweepers by providing them with intelligence information. He would keep them updated at all times.
“We’re looking for two men,” he said. “They live on the second floor. It’s a walk-up. Apartment two hundred and two is the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. They’re in the apartment now. We have confirmation.”
“Do we know what the charge is?” one of the sweepers asked.
Doug wasn’t supposed to reveal what a target was charged with, but he was too excited and let it slip. “They’re two of the lead organizers of the gay pride parade, charged with contributing to moral decay. As if we need a reason. We’re going to have a lot more to pick up after these two,” he said as he looked at the computer monitor.
The van glided to a stop in front of a small three-story apartment building. The sweepers picked up the equipment they’d need to make an arrest and ran for the door.
CHAPTER 22
Vérité
Matt sat staring at his computer in the basement. He had never before experienced a feeling of being utterly cut off from friends he could trust. He wished he was back at Le Rôti Français, standing in line, the barista ready to hand him his order. That seemed like ages ago now.
Had Cyberia’s warning come soon enough?
He’d asked himself that question so many times in the past few hours. He had made it through the destruction, and so far, no one was knocking at the door—certainly no agents with handcuffs.
The brief communication with his cyber team hadn’t helped, and the admonition of their final words was a warning—both explicit and implicit. Matt was cut off from help, and he knew it. He realized he was in danger, targeted because he had investigated CleanSweep and then reported it. His investigation had cut too close to the bone, as some might say. Now the fury generated by his probing meant the considerable resources of Enseûrtech and CleanSweep were pointing at him like an arrow aimed at a bull’s-eye.
“I have to think of a way to get in touch with Carl and Susan,” he thought.
He wrinkled his nose, annoyed at the lingering stench of smoke and decay leftover from the riots. The odor permeated everything, had even seeped through the cracks in the building’s foundation and found a way into his basement hidey-hole. He knew he wouldn’t be safe there for long. His narrow escape fro
m the subway earlier was only the beginning. Someone was sure to spot him soon. And then—game over.
He needed to keep his mind occupied so he could think clearly about his next steps. For something to do, he turned on one of his computers, the one that still held his blog files. With a mouse click, his computer screen filled with the opening page of his very first blog. Matt read the words with melancholy and chagrin.
Was I that naive? My city was still intact then. How did we let this business with CleanSweep go so far?
Reading that first blog was, for him, like returning to an innocence that likely never existed.
The genie is out of the bottle now, he thought as he began to read.
April 28. VÉRITÉ, a blog by Matt Tremain
Let me tell you about my adopted city, the place I call home. I’ve walked its streets and lanes, leaving few, if any, neighborhoods unexplored.
But by far, my favorite activity is riding the streetcar. I love riding the 501 streetcar between the Long Branch loop and its corresponding turnaround loop to the east. I sometimes ride that vehicle back and forth for hours at a time. It is my chance to breathe in and study the rich diversity of the city. To me, that ride captures our diversity.
From colorful silk wraps revealing the cultural roots of women wearing them to men wearing stiff-necked suits to students wearing predistressed designer jeans—they all blend together as the car glides east, only to turn and head back west, only to turn around and head east. The streetcar does that day after day, and I am reassured by its regularity.
Looking out the window, I find myself curious about a particular man I see regularly who waves his arms as if trying to gather crowds to follow him, guiding us away from some danger only he knows about. I’ve never seen anybody follow him. You may have noticed him as well, standing on the corner of Berkeley Street.
My favorite character, above all, is a woman I call the Dancing Lady. To my eyes, she always seems to be attempting a plié, perhaps a demiplié, or maybe a not-so-grand jeté. I admit to a limited acquaintance with ballet terminology. I silently pray that her dancing gives her pleasure, but somehow I doubt it. She can be seen dancing in her private dance studio on the grass at the edge of Moss Park.
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 17
